


Punchline

by FrivolousSuits



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-09-03
Packaged: 2019-07-04 18:04:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15846555
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrivolousSuits/pseuds/FrivolousSuits
Summary: A kid gazing up into a boxing ring. Fans clashing outside a stadium. Two hands inches apart on a paper.Travis and Harvey spend their whole lives missing each other.Alternate summary: "Soulmates ruin everything."





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Chapters 2 and 3 draw heavily from canon events; all the dialogue and expressions in Harvey's scenes actually happened on the show (though I cut a couple of Travis's lines at the end of 3). Special thanks to [statusquo_ergo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/statusquo_ergo) for lots of writing and research help!

_ “You poor thing.” _

Harvey remembers how sick he felt, though he had chalked it up to the fever, the dizziness, the rotten taste in his mouth from throwing up at school. It had nothing to do with his mother’s pretty new dress, dark blue with buttons she was still doing up at half past one, or the smoky eye makeup he had never seen her wear before. Nothing to do with how she dropped her hands onto Harvey’s shoulders as if to protect him and steered him away from her room, leaning in close, blocking his view back inside.

(“And let’s not tell Dad about cousin Scott.”)

He remembers all this almost a decade later when he catches them again, Lily and the same guy– Robert, he finds out– and now she’s crying and ruining the damn makeup and pleading for Harvey to understand, because she couldn’t walk out on Gordon and the kids, but don’t you see Harvey, she and Bobby are meant to be?

He can’t find anything to say, so he makes a dramatic exit, slamming the door behind him and running to nowhere, all the Boston houses rushing together into one brick blur.

He returns home late. His mother tries to say something, he turns away and cuts her off. When Marcus asks where he’s been, she stays silent and stares at him, waiting.

He looks down at his kid brother, out of breath, still tasting rot in his mouth. “Soulmates ruin everything.”

* * *

 

A laugh is a powerful weapon.

Travis wields it in self-defense most days. He laughs at the right jokes, he wears the letter jacket from tennis on a daily basis, he throws smirks at girls and hopes it’s flirting. He wins awards– might just make valedictorian– and flies under the radar when it really counts.

“Why’d you and Lisa really break up, huh? She’s saying it’s ‘cause  _ you _ were too scared to, uh, hit a home run.”

Now they’re all staring at him, all his athlete friends crowded around the cafeteria table, and Travis’s brain goes into overdrive. He could go for her credibility, say she’s trying to shake her reputation as a prude and really they broke up over something else, something dumb, what color corsage to get for homecoming, but Lisa’s a good girl in more ways than one. People will trust her over him. It won’t stick.

“Common sense hit like lightning,” he finally says, pasting on his all-purpose grin. “I mean, she’s nice enough, but if she got pregnant and her dad made me marry her, I’d have to come home to that face every day.”

Everybody laughs.

He breathes a sigh of relief when they move on to joking how they should do something about that sophomore Bertie, the one who keeps peeping in the guys’ locker room. Travis keeps chuckling on cue.

He’s in shape for varsity tennis, strong arms, fast on his feet, but he can’t shake the creeping feeling that it won’t be enough in the long run, which is why he asks around for a couple weeks and then decides to try boxing. Near his house there’s a boxing gym, a typical Boston brick building tucked in a side street, and he shows up there with an old t-shirt and a pair of second-hand boxing gloves.

Upon walking in, he stops in place.

There’s a vicious sparring match smack in the middle of the gym, a towering man fighting someone younger, a swarmer who strikes Travis dumb. He’s shirtless, with brown hair that’s glimmering in the light and golden skin that’s glistening with sweat, and his dark eyes are focused intently on his opponent. His jaw is strong, and his cheekbones chiseled like he’s a goddamn Greek statue, perfect except for two little dark spots along his eyebrow.

Travis forces himself to quit staring at the man’s body– he’s subtler than that, he has to be– and instead evaluates the way he moves, swift and elegant, yet thrumming with coiled-up power. He inevitably wins, weaving and hooking until his opponent cries uncle and steps out of the ring. 

Travis darts forward for reasons he can’t articulate.

“Hey,” he says, panting as if he was the one boxing, “can I go a round with you?”

It’s a bad idea. The guy knows it’s a bad idea, leaning down against the ropes with a smirk that matches Travis’s own. “I don’t know you, you new here?”

Travis nods and braces for the worst. Yet the guy’s jaw tenses in a not wholly hostile way, like he’s really considering the possibility, and Travis can’t tell why his whole body swells with traitorous hope.

Finally, he shakes his head. “Nah, you’re better off with a real trainer. See the guy over there, in the blue . . .”

His smile is kind as he lets Travis down. It feels like a punch to the chest.

* * *

 

“We have a three-year streak,” Harvey fills in Scottie as they make their way to the stadium for the Harvard-Yale football game, “and it’s not going to break now.”

A cry rings out: “We’re going to demolish you!”

Harvey spins around and sees a cocky guy decked out in Yale gear, his hair gelled down and covered with blue paint. Though he’s logically too far away to tell, Harvey instantaneously knows that his eyes are brilliant blue to match.

They’re all late to the game, but Harvey has a sudden urge to move back towards him. Scottie catches him by the elbow and pulls him towards the stadium again. “Don’t fight Yalies when you can just watch them lose.”

Harvard loses by two points. That must be why disappointment hits that night, curls up cold in Harvey’s stomach.

* * *

 

Travis tries again, this time with a girl named Amanda studying at the Divinity School. They meet at a lecture series on soulmates– her thesis compares how different religious traditions treat the bonds, and Travis is simply curious about the subject. The lecturer asks all the attendees to shake hands, just to check.

Nothing.

Still, Travis makes Amanda laugh, and he knows in an abstract sense that she’s as pretty as any girl on a magazine cover, and so they go out for coffee. Coffee leads to dinner, dinner leads to a night at her apartment.

He’s trying.

They’ve been seeing each other for a couple months when she calls and asks him to please meet her at her dorm. She’s strangely formal about it, and he runs over fast as he can.

“I have to tell you something.”

“Is everything okay?”

“More than okay,” she says. “See, I decided this morning to go study in the stacks at the library.”

“But aren’t you–”

“Scared of the stacks? Yeah, I am.” She chokes on a weird giddy laugh. “But I just knew it’d be good for me to go.”

“. . . And?”

“And there was this other girl with a huge pile of books to check out, and she’s going through the stacks and then she drops them, and there’s this crash, and I, I scream because the stacks are spooky as it is, and then I ran to see what happened, and I was helping her pick them up.”

“That’s . . . nice of you.” He frowns, unclear on what she’s trying to tell him.

“Yeah, I just knew I should help instead of, I don’t know, running for my life.” Amanda takes a deep breath. “Anyway, when I went to get the books, I touched her hand.”

Oh.

He gets it, of course he does, and the floodgates open. She’s beaming ear to ear as she explains how it was a magical experience, how none of the sacred texts she’s read came close to capturing the sheer joy and wonder, how she’s thankful to the fates for leading her to her soulmate. She gushes on and on, and he asks questions to encourage her.

When it gets late, she finally seems to remember who he used to be to her. “You won’t mind if we don’t see each other anymore, right?”

“You mean I can’t compete with true love?” he says with a smirk. It softens as he amends, “No. I wish you the best of luck.”

Her smile freezes as she hears what he’s not saying; bond or not, society’s still unlikely to embrace her new relationship. “We’re going to need it.”

* * *

 

Harvey flips through the newest Chambers guide ranking law firms and lawyers, just to stay familiar with the corporate landscape while he works for Cameron Dennis. On a whim he looks for information on Boston.

His gaze snags on a name he’s never seen before, of a little litigation firm.

“Something interesting?”

Harvey glances up at Donna, who’s sashayed into his office with the files he was about to order. “No, but . . . Do you know the name Clyde-MacPhee?”

“No, who is he?”

“Not he, it. It’s a law firm.”

She raises an eyebrow. “If you don’t know it, and I don’t know it, is it worth knowing?”

“Probably not.”

She shrugs, drops the files on his desk and leaves the room. 

Probably not.

Still, it’s a struggle to shut the book and go back to work.

* * *

 

Gordon, Schmidt and Van Dyke.

It’s the butt of jokes among Yale Law students, and Travis is already sitting pretty with an offer from the firm where he worked last summer, Clyde-MacPhee, a boutique litigation firm specializing in class-actions. There’s no reason for him to do anything but laugh at the pretentious New York firm, so obsessed with its elite status it’s cutting itself off from the best supply of law students in the world, namely Yale Law.

Yet the fact that Gordon, Schmidt and Van Dyke won’t consider him just because he comes from too good of a school feels like a personal insult, and he’s tempted to take on the challenge. He could send down his resume– two moot court awards and a prize paper, not to mention that class action he personally broke as a summer associate– and call in a few favors among the Harvard alums he knows and bully his way into an interview, and there he could make an impassioned case for expanding the Harvard rule into the Harvard-Yale rule . . .

He shouldn’t bother, he doesn’t want to work anywhere so short-sighted that it’d recruit exclusively from one school. Still, it’s an unjustifiably tempting plan.

* * *

 

Even when he settles in at Pearson-Hardman, far from his family drama, Harvey feels the pull to go back to Boston. He returns to see his dad every few months, then to pay his respects every year. Every time he gets back onto the train home, an uncharacteristic melancholy weighs him down.

* * *

 

Travis settles into his life as a Clyde-MacPhee attorney. He knows he’s not at the center of the action, not terrorizing Manhattan like most of his law school friends. Given how easily they slip out of his life, he wonders whether they were really friends in the first place.

Unlike them, he’s never been in the game for the money or the fame. His taste for victory is just one facet of his taste for optimizing, for being clever and pulling off the impossible, so while he loves to win he’s not particularly crushed when things don’t go his way.

Despite– or because of– his relatively laid-back attitude, Travis wins often, and he doesn’t boast nearly as much as he could. He avoids networking, he doesn’t speak to the press, he stays on good terms with Clyde and MacPhee and shuns the rest of the office politics. He avoids the clutter to focus on doing exceptional work, and he only laughs a little bit at how stunned his colleagues are when he makes junior partner, a year before the timeline. 

He could rub their noses in it.

He could but doesn’t, he’s not cruel by default. The whole damn industry’s full of show-offs who lash out just to soothe their own inferiority complexes, and Travis learns from their meanness, he studies how to store up gossip and cut rivals down with his words, and he makes certain to never do it without a purpose. He’s cruel only when it’s efficient to be, and he doesn’t mock (solely) for his own pleasure.

Still, people see his snake-oil smile and his ill-fitting suits and write him off as one more cookie-cutter corporate lawyer, smart until he isn’t, ultimately heartless and insufferable. He lets them make their mistakes. They think he’ll live his whole life alone.

He does his best not to care.

* * *

 

Harvey makes senior partner early, before Louis, even before he really saw it coming. At once Jessica shoves him out of the office to find an associate, and thus begins a ridiculous chain events ending in pot on the Chilton floor and some recreational misdemeanor fraud.

Harvey can’t grasp what the hell happened, how he could have possibly hired a bad drug dealer with no law degree as his associate. He doesn’t understand what the goal of the whole Rube-Goldberg machine is until Mike meets a paralegal for his orientation and goes from a handshake to “I love you” in the space of thirty seconds.

That would explain it.

The universe twisted itself into knots to throw Mike and Rachel together, so Harvey can’t help the twinge of self-pity. Not just because he thought the kid was cute himself, but because he’s frustrated that the universe has never lifted a damn finger for him.


	2. Chapter 2

Travis makes senior partner at Clyde MacPhee, youngest one in history. He’s got to grab new business constantly to keep the position, and that’s how he rationalizes taking a call from Emerson Petroleum. Famously shady, Emerson wants him to prepare a major case for them pro bono, “to prove he’s better than their current representation.”

It’s an absurd offer; Travis’s time runs eight hundred dollars an hour, and his track record’s already proven that he blows their current lawyers out of the water. When they refuse to budge he ought to give them an obnoxiously transparent excuse and then hang up.

Instead he asks for the details.

It’s a morally abominable case, and based in New York– two more reasons he’d usually pass over it. Emerson poisoned a school, leading to at least two hundred cases of cancer in teachers and volunteers and students, and though Travis is used to dealing with goddamn cigarette lobbyists even he’s shocked by the carelessness of their executives.

He tells them he’ll think about the case.

Trouble is, he can’t _stop_ thinking about it, even when he finds opposing counsel is none other than Jessica Pearson – yet another reason to run for the hills, because by reputation she’s the best closer in New York. Still, he keeps digging, trying to guess at who might be supporting her on the case, associates or paralegals or–

Or Harvey Specter.

The name on the firm website rings a bell, though Travis can’t identify why. He zeroes right in on Harvey, a brand-new senior partner just like him.

“Kaori,” he asks, checking in with MacPhee’s legal secretary, well-known in the firm as the mistress of all industry knowledge. “What can you tell me about Harvey Specter?”

“Harvey who?”

Travis snorts. “He’s an attorney down in Manhattan. He came up in Emerson case–”

“I thought Jessica Pearson’s the lead on that.” Kaori taps a query into Google and finds Harvey’s firm profile. “Hm . . . They’re not putting two senior partners on this, are they?”

“No, but I bet he matters anyway.”

Kaori arches one eyebrow. “Why?”

“Call it a hunch.”

She makes a skeptical noise. “You wanna call in that favor?”

It’s valuable to have Kaori in his court whenever he wants, and this isn’t nearly pressing enough to give that power up.

“I do.”

A weighty dossier lands on his desk that afternoon, stuffed with information on Harvey Reginald– _Reginald_? – Specter. Sure enough, he’s Jessica’s right-hand man, a stone’s throw away from the case like Travis had guessed. Then there’s a stack of court records outlining his victories, and a stack of gushing testimonials proving that he’s an expert at making everyone love him.

Everyone but Travis.

It’s the opposite of love, the hot rage that blooms in Travis’s chest as he contemplates contemplates this smug bastard. There’s something obnoxious about Harvey, something outrageous, he must swagger around Manhattan like he owns the whole town, expecting people to tremble in their boots at the sound of his name. Travis knows this all from the smirk in his firm profile photo.

Travis doesn’t consider himself an especially good people-reader, he’d rather rely on hard data, yet he can’t shake other intuitions. Like the fact that a footnote on how Harvey ended up at NYU– his original first choice pulled his athletic scholarship– matters more than anything he did there. Like how the most important case of Harvey’s life happened decades back, a divorce case settled on “no fault” grounds.

“No fault” is a lie, he’s inexplicably sure of it.

There’s no reason to take the case besides the bragging rights from bringing down Jessica Pearson herself, but Travis has never cared about bragging rights before.

“I’ll give it my best shot,” he promises Emerson that night.

What the hell is going on.

* * *

 

It’s an ordinary day.

It’s a perfectly ordinary day, organized on Harvey’s schedule into neat blocks— a consultation with a potential client, a meeting with an existing one, several hours marked out in the afternoon for handling the M&A deals currently on his plate. Right now there’s nothing pressing to do but read the paper, no reason for Harvey to feel like he mainlined a triple-shot espresso.

And yet.

He presses down the jitters and presents an image of perfect calm, skimming an article on the composition of the Supreme Court. He holds onto the pose when a stranger barges into the room, not even deigning to look up as he murmurs, “Wrong office.”

The guy doesn’t budge, instead announcing, “Harvey, I have to admit, great job making Kenny Verdasco the face of your class action suit.”

Harvey looks up to find a middle-aged man wearing too much hair gel and a blazer, sloppy polo shirt, and light gray pants, all mismatched, not remarkable in the slightest.

(Except for the blue eyes.)

“I don’t know who Kenny Verdasco is,” Harvey says; he’s never heard the name in his life.

“Oh,” he replies breezily, not rattled in the slightest, “well, you better find out.”

There’s risk inherent in this whole situation, and though Harvey can’t deny the thrill of danger he makes an attempt at rationality. “How about for starters you introduce yourself or I’m calling security?” He reaches for the intercom and barks, “Donna–”

“Relax, relax.”

Harvey’s not one for direct orders, but against his common sense his finger lets go of the button.

“Name’s Travis Tanner,” he adds.

A curious feeling comes over Harvey, and he lifts his eyebrows and tips his head, and his voice comes out softer than he intends, suffused with breath and wonder. “ _You’re_ Travis Tanner?”

“You’ve heard of me.” He smirks, cocking an eyebrow.

“No.”

Harvey says it as casually as he can, turning back to his paper as if he has a hope of tuning Travis out, but the words blur in front of his eyes. Harvey can’t shake the feeling that he knows that name, that he knows this man. There’s a flicker of recognition between them, though surely they’ve never met before.

Travis plunges on, explaining how he’s based up in Boston with Clyde-MacPhee, and Harvey’s positive he’s heard of them, though he pretends otherwise. Still, he can’t dwell on it, not when Travis is sweeping along the conversation with a smile that’s not purely for show, boasting that Kenny’s currently crumbling at the seams. As he rattles off other possible causes for Kenny’s cancer– smoking parents, exposure to dangerous chemicals in the army– Harvey finally realizes the case is Jessica’s against Emerson Petroleum, though that still can’t illuminate why Travis thinks it matters to either of _them._

He’s hanging onto Travis’s every word, straining to catch up, though outwardly he’s projecting the picture of ease. He still can’t tell _why_ Travis is in his office, preening about how he was the one who gave all the dirt on Kenny to Emerson’s current counsel and how he’s about to steal their jobs out from under them.

“So are you coming to me for a pep talk? You’re going to do great, kiddo.”

He means to deliver the line with cutting sarcasm, the sort that instantly withers witnesses in cross-examinations. It comes out _tender_.

Travis keeps up the brazen monologue. “You see, Emerson Petroleum was going to lose this case, so they called me in to fix the situation. And when I beat Pearson Hardman, I don’t want anyone saying it was because they didn’t send in their best.”

“Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, but Jessica Pearson’s handling this case herself, and if you think that she’s not the best . . . why don’t you take a run at her and find out?”

“All right, look,” Travis breaks in. “I hear what you’re saying, but here’s the thing— I know that you know who I am.”

Harvey wants to shut him down again and insist he’s got no clue, but a niggling doubt whispers that that’s not wholly true.

“And I also know—“ now he’s playing with the office decor, getting his hands all over Harvey’s balls— “that during your senior year, you missed out on playing in the state championship because of your shoulder.” He pouts in mock-sympathy. “You can’t pitch with a bad shoulder.”

How the _hell_ did he know to pick on that particular scab?

“And what do you know,” he charges on. “They won without you, Harvey. Now, ask yourself something— are you going to let Jessica Pearson play the big game for you, hm?”

Harvey suddenly laughs.

“What’s so funny?”

“I’m just thinking about how I’m going to enjoy kicking your ass.”

He grins back.“I’ll see you in court.”

Harvey leans back into his chair while his gaze follows Travis out. His delight settles into contemplation.

* * *

 

Travis strides out, strangely elated, certain that under that insouciant demeanor Harvey feels just the same way.

He knows they both feel it, this need to kill, this sense of being more _alive._

* * *

 

Harvey strides into Jessica’s office and smoothly takes over the case– turns out she’d already made Travis’s acquaintance.

“Be careful,” she warns him.

“I will.”

“I mean, bringing up state championships? That’s just– that’s just wrong.”

“. . . Nothing I wouldn’t have done.”

Travis Tanner is obnoxious, outrageous, and Harvey can’t help needing to know more about him– to win the case, of course. So he instructs Mike to dig into Travis, where he’s gone to school, what cases he’s won–

“Why?” the kid interrupts. “You thinking about starting a Wikipedia page for him?”

Harvey tries his patented look of withering scorn again, but he’s too damn happy to commit to it; Mike too fails to wither. “I don’t know anything about how this guy operates, and before I make a move, I need to know everything about how this guy operates–”

“Right,” Mike keeps teasing, “for his Wikipedia page.”

* * *

 

Now officially Travis’s client, Emerson lets him in on a extralegal plan they’ve cooked up– they’re going to intimidate Kenny into submission, using whatever means necessary. They’ve got the logistics in place already, a cadre of trained witness tamperers they’ve used before. Travis initially tries to talk them out of it, with no luck, so he just reminds them not to get physical and asks enough questions to confirm he can plausibly deny any knowledge of the crime. They set their plot in motion at once.

Travis hangs up.

He’s done a few illegal things in his time, but not without thorough consideration and far more sophisticated covers, and so he paces around his hotel room for a few minutes, trying to deduce all the ways this can go wrong. The most obvious risk is that Harvey might himself be conferring with Kenny when Emerson’s guys show up, trying to lift his spirits after the morning’s disastrous deposition.

His fingers twitch, and before he knows it he’s called Harvey. He doesn’t even have to stop to look up the number, because the digits are branded into his brain. He arranges with Harvey to discuss the case, and he agrees to head all the way out to the scene of the crime, Apple Creek High School.

It briefly occurs to him that maybe someone else from Pearson-Hardman might be with Kenny, Jessica or Mike Ross, but he can’t take the possibility seriously. Harvey’s covering the whole case himself; all his attention is focused on Travis, just as Travis’s attention is all on him.

Now that he’s drawn Harvey away from Kenny Verdasco, he starts deciding what to _do_ with his brand-new archenemy.  First he comes up with Plan Z– a joke, he tucks it away in his pocket to never see the light of day– and then he starts filling in A to Y. He also swaps his casual clothes for a proper suit, the nicest in his closet, for reasons he doesn’t waste time investigating.

The moment his limo pulls up and he sees Harvey there, casually leaning back against his own sleek black car, doubt strikes. Every moment they’re together, Travis is at risk of giving away too much of _himself_ , perhaps jeopardizing the case in the process.

Plan Z’s looking better and better.

* * *

 

Harvey chose this spot, ground zero, so he would have the emotion of the school under his feet. He wanted to shame Travis, to pull on his heartstrings, and then to scare him into making a reasonable settlement.

“30 years ago,” he spits, “your clients failed to cap an oil well and gave them all cancer.”

Unfortunately, the only emotion he seems to be getting out of Travis is glee.

“You see all these power lines around here?” Travis retorts, seizing on their setting and turning it against Harvey. “They criss-cross the entire town. Two miles down that road, paint factory. You've got a microwave tower. And all this grass that you see? It's been treated with pesticide every week for twenty years.” He points at every exhibit as he names it. “You say it’s our fault. I say you’re wrong.”

Two can play at that game.

“That office. Mitch Rosewall. Soccer coach. Brain cancer. Library. Monica Dodd volunteered. She ran it for years. Stomach cancer.”

They’re sparring, standing on poisoned ground and discussing cancer and death, and they’re both much happier than is strictly appropriate.

Damn propriety.

Harvey charges on, trying to cow Travis into submission even though he already knows it won’t work, same way he knows neither of them has anything to discuss that they don't both know. Travis has a deeper reason for calling him here, he’s sure of it.

It might be something illegal. In fact, Harvey’s almost positive it is, he can sense it, even while he’s fairly certain Travis isn’t thrilled with whatever it is.

“Aw, this is fun, Harvey,” Travis says, and he means it. “I’m just sorry to say we won’t get a chance to do this in court. Against my advice, Emerson wants to settle.”

“. . . You’re kidding me. After all this, you want to settle?”

It can’t be over this quickly.

“No, I don’t,” Travis corrects, “but those are my instructions. Call it a draw.”

He reaches into his pocket and hands Harvey a letter. He reaches out to give it, Harvey reaches out to take it . . .

Their fingers land inches apart.

Harvey opens it and finds, in truly weird handwriting, “KISS MY ASS.” Fortunately Travis disappears before Harvey can joke about taking him up on the offer.

As he heads back to his own car, the strange line of deductions runs to its conclusion, and he knows without a doubt what Travis’s next move will be.

* * *

 

Travis knows Harvey knows about the witness tampering. He wonders _how_ he figures this out and chalks it up to his innate legal genius. Maybe it’s because he’s out of his Boston comfort zone, and New York just brings out the best in him.

Or it brings out his latent paranoia. It’s hard to tell.

Still, if Harvey now potentially thinks of him as a renegade outlaw, he might as well use it to his advantage.

* * *

 

God, Harvey’s good at reading people any day, but right now? He’s on fire. And just as he predicted, Travis tried to intimidate Kenny, though he cleverly sent a proxy to keep his own hands clean.

“How did you know Tanner was going after Kenny?” Mike pipes up.

“Because if I was the type to go out of bounds, that’s exactly what I’d do.”

Not completely true– he’d probably go after other plaintiffs, important ones but not the lead, not the person most likely to be in constant contact with counsel– but it’s the best explanation he’s got for his sudden insight.

“So what's our next move?”

“I’m calling in reinforcements,” Harvey announces.

“What do you mean?”

“If Tanner sent a guy to intimidate Kenny, he’s got something up his sleeve, and I want to know what it is.”

Mike snorts. “Oh, man.”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s . . .” He takes a moment to compose his thoughts. “You guys are like two sides of the same coin.”

Harvey stonewalls him, not even considering the possibility. Nobody’s another him, after all, certainly not this cut-rate cutthroat from the (relative) middle-of-nowhere.

He calls in the reinforcements he promised– his PI Vanessa, who runs a background check and several other checks besides. “What do you have for me?”

“Nothing. On paper, Tanner’s clean. He may break the rules, but he covers his tracks.”

Damn, he’s good.

“You’ve never come up empty for me before.”

She gives him a knowing look. “I didn’t this time either. Tanner booked a conference room at the Waldorf tomorrow at noon.”

Ah, a more direct approach to criminal intimidation– he’ll attack all the plaintiffs at once, frightening just enough of them to break the class. Harvey works through the whole plan at lightning speed, and so it takes him a moment to notice how Vanessa’s looking at him strangely.

“What?”

“You’ve used me for a lot of things. You’ve never asked me to investigate another attorney before.”

“This guy’s good,” Harvey replies, just barely averting “special.”

* * *

 

Travis needs Harvey to read his mind. Specifically, he needs Harvey to read his mind, to pick up on the arguably subtle signals he’s been giving, and against his own interests meet Travis in a hotel room booked specially for their rendezvous. And if Travis is jittery from anticipation, from wondering whether Harvey really will accept his unspoken invitation, it’s only because the Emerson case depends on it.

He can feel when Harvey enters the conference room, though he’s down a separate hallway, taking in the Waldorf’s architecture– complex and artful enough to get away with being pretty damn outrageous.

“Sorry to ruin your little brunch,” Harvey says, swaggering up to him amidst the crowd of plaintiffs, “but I think you know damn well that you can’t legally address my clients.”

“Hey,” he replies, “I just came for the juice.” He pours himself a glass of orange juice and gives a sensuous moan: “Pulp-free.”

Harvey rolls his eyes. The game begins.

“I know I can’t talk to your clients directly, but thank god you’re here, Harv.” Harvey lifts his eyebrows, prompting him, and he delivers the punchline. “Because what I can do is talk to you.”

He starts addressing everyone in the room, all the plaintiffs in Pearson-Hardman’s precious case, but he’s focused on Harvey’s face as the realization hits, his expression morphing from smug to furious.

“Harvey,” he announces, projecting loud and clear, “Emerson Petroleum is offering $25,000 to each and every one of your clients. If they don’t take that, this trial stretches out for years. Cross-examinations will be brutal.” He makes eye contact with two particularly sick-looking patients while adding, “They take our settlement, and this whole thing will be gone tomorrow. Now–” he strides to a whiteboard and starts scrawling big bold digits on it– “if any of your clients want to get in touch with me, here’s my number.”

He tucks the marker in Mike Ross’s pocket– the poor kid looks terrified– and then bids him and Harvey goodbye. As he saunters off down a hallway, Harvey chases him.

“You’re not going to get away with what you’re doing. You know that, right?”

“What?” He spins around to face Harvey, suppressing his smirk, the picture of innocence. “I just addressed you with a raised voice– sometimes, my ears aren’t so good. If other people heard me, I apologize, Harvey.” Because he can’t help himself, he adds, “I’m just glad you were smart enough to figure out I booked the Waldorf.”

It might just mean Harvey’s been looking into him.

At that moment Travis gets his first call. “Mmm. I think I need to take this, I’m guessing it’s one of your clients wanting to take my settlement offer.” He turns back around and lifts the phone to his ear: “Hello?”

“Tanner. I’m coming after you.”

Travis glances back to where Harvey’s staring him down, phone to his ear, his eyes too intense for his smile. “Oh, I got your number.”

* * *

 

Harvey needs the firm’s money, because he needs a loan to match Travis and guarantee his plaintiffs 25 grand each, and his damn financiers won’t agree to give it without collateral.

They won’t give it because, as Jessica immediately perceives, they think he’s going to lose.

She turns him down on the collateral, and the gears start spinning even faster in Harvey’s head; he’s furious with Travis for backing him into a corner. He’s not down yet, though, he’s got more lines to cross.

“I want to put this competition aside,” he tells Travis. “Call it a draw.”

They’re standing beside each other on a crowded street corner. Instead of facing each other for a confrontation, they naturally arrange themselves shoulder to shoulder, looking out on the world as one joined unit.

“Tapping out, Harv?”

“This isn’t about that. This is about real people. You make them a reasonable offer, I’ll get them to take it.”

“Real people?” Travis scoffs, the first real anger he’s elicited; Harvey wonders if he’s stumbled on some semblance of a moral compass. “You’re standing there in a $12,000 suit asking me not to do my job. You care so much about those real people, I suggest you give them your lunch money, but don’t ask me for mine.”

He stalks away, and Harvey places a call to his PI for a wiretap he most certainly shouldn’t have access to. He’ll do anything where Travis Tanner is concerned.

* * *

 

“I got them an advance against their settlement.”

Travis sits in Harvey’s office, listening to how the 95 plaintiffs he got to defect to his side have defected back, and he doesn’t bother checking the numbers himself because his gut knows Harvey’s not bluffing on this one. Still, he doesn’t get _how_ Harvey got the check to pull this off.

“No finance company in their right mind would back your suit,” he protests . . . unless.

Unless Harvey got collateral. And it’s possible it’s Jessica’s money he’s gambling with, but that’s not right, no, he crossed a line for Travis and put up his own money.

Travis is flattered by the attention.

“You know what this means,” he fights back, “I'm going to hammer them all one by one, break them down. And it's going to get ugly.”

“No, you’re not,” Harvey corrects, smoothly sliding his trump card across the desk.

“What the hell is that.”

“It's a conversation between you and Emerson Petroleum, discussing how you sent a man to intimidate Kenny Verdasco,” Harvey explains, calm and utterly self-satisfied, “Take a listen. Don't worry, it’s not going to give you cancer.”

Logically, Travis knows he _should_ listen, because Harvey could be lying, yet he’s also unshakably certain he’s not, and checking the recording would confirm Harvey’s suspicions anyway. “No matter what that is, it's not admissible. Unless, of course, you had a warrant . . . which you didn't.”

“It showed up on my doorstep,” Harvey says coolly, lifting his eyebrows just so. “And I declared that on this affidavit which I'm about to send to court.”

As if.

“So you’re going to perjure yourself just to win this case.”

“I’m not going to perjure myself.” Harvey doesn’t give an inch. “Even if I were, it wouldn’t be just to win the case, it would be to get your ass thrown in jail.”

Harvey throws down a new deal, two million per plaintiff, and Travis is tempted to fight it. Harvey’s not willing to lie to the court; Travis watches him carefully, and his whole soul is singing that Harvey is bluffing, that he’s a good man with too much integrity for perjury.

Harvey tells him to get the hell out of his city, and Travis tells his soul to shut up.

Mike pulls the damn marker out of his pocket. Without checking the contract— Harvey’s telling the truth on that much, he’s sure— Travis signs.

* * *

 

“That loan I got for the plaintiffs?” Harvey admits to Mike. “I put up a million dollars of my own money to get it.”

“If that’s not having emotion, I don’t know what is.”

“Get out.”

“That seemed a little angry,” the kid harps. “Feeling good? Satisfied? Happy? All right.” He does in fact get out, but not before crowing, “Emotional!”

Once he’s gone, Harvey stares out the door, imagining how behind several walls Travis is probably jabbing violently at the elevator call button right now. “Okay, maybe a little happy.”

An irritating impulse strikes, to actually _reflect_ on himself and on his close call, on this whole bizarre episode, but Harvey ignores it. He beat Travis Tanner, and it was hugely but not unreasonably satisfying. End of story.


	3. Chapter 3

Travis looks at himself in the mirror of a bathroom– it’s decorated in cream and tan, though his apartment bathroom’s all in blue– and then dries his face and hair with a towel. He catches sight of a naked body in the mirror, someone lying in the adjoining bedroom, wrapped in tangled sheets. He lowers the towel and then steps into the room, smiling in contentment at . . .

Harvey Specter.

Travis shoots up in his own bed, breathing hard.

Harvey Specter’s been nothing more than a mildly painful memory since he marched out of New York several months back, but now he’s barging into Travis’s subconscious, where he is most certainly unwelcome. Isn’t he?

Not quite. It’s almost as if he belongs there, at the periphery of Travis’s life, and for a second he wonders whether he and Harvey are . . .

Of course they aren’t. Kaori’s dossier contained speculation that Harvey’s already found his soulmate– his secretary, Donna Paulsen, who according to observers displays a truly supernatural awareness of his needs and desires. Office intrigue, not to mention Pearson-Hardman's strict ban on interoffice relationships, could incentivize them to keep their bond private.

Travis tries imagining her into the scene, lying in that bed with her arms around Harvey, and feels vaguely nauseous.

There are other counterarguments to consider. First off, he doesn’t feel _love_ for Harvey Specter, just anger; the glee mixed into his memories is surely exaggerated, statistically insignificant. Then there’s the fact that they must have touched at some point. Surely they shook hands when they first met, and brushed each other’s fingers when he handed Harvey that bogus settlement, and didn’t he take Harvey’s pen in order to sign the final contract?

That settles that. He pushes the ridiculous idea out of his mind.

* * *

 

Harvey’s felt out of place, fettered by nerves and the unshakeable sense of doing something _wrong_ ever since Travis Tanner left town. He explains it as withdrawal from the high of a win, compounded by Mike’s diploma angst and the stress of Cameron and Trevor and Hardman smashing his life to pieces. That must be why he feels tired and hollow, like he dropped a piece of himself somewhere along the road.

* * *

 

Travis misses New York. He misses how he felt alive, electric, making connections at double speed. He’s been hearing for ages that the sheer energy of Manhattan raises a lawyer’s game, and there might just be meaning to the myth.

It’s mere coincidence, that moving back to New York gives him the pleasure of flouting Harvey Specter’s unreasonable, intolerable marching orders.

* * *

 

Harvey won the Coastal Motors case years back; he proved the driver’s own recklessness caused the crash, not any defect in the car itself. Though that statute of limitations has already expired, some punk’s trying to reopen the case by claiming there’s new evidence, and Harvey’s peculiarly curious to see who at a sensible firm like Smith and Devane could possibly be dumb enough . . .

Oh.

“Careful there, Harv,” Travis snarks as he sweeps into the conference room. “That’s high-end Brazilian cherry from the South American rainforest.”

“Tanner,” he replies, straining to keep anything like happiness from muddying his tone. “You selling furniture now?”

“No. But if we both did, I’d sell more than you,” he merrily retorts.

Harvey sternly reminds himself not to be amused. “I thought I told you to stay out of my city.”

“Can't,” Travis informs him with grating good cheer, “I'm the newest senior partner at Smith and Devane.”

“Don't get too comfortable. If all you're bringing is the Boston shakedown, you're not gonna be here long.”

“Oh, I'm bringing more than that, Harvey.”

Utterly unruffled, he hands Harvey an internal memo claiming CM knew about a defect. His implication is that Harvey purposely buried the damn thing, and because the statute of limitations doesn’t apply when evidence is fraudulently concealed the case is still fair game.

Harvey looks back up, eyes alight with shock and wonder. “You really want to come after me again.”

“I’m not moving down here for the sushi.”

Wait. Did he just imply that he switched firms and states for _Harvey?_

No, Harvey’s not quite full enough of himself to buy that; Travis must have the move all figured out, a path to name partnership here, a fancy apartment all set up with criminally low rent. He’s probably been settled here for months, getting all his other affairs in order before he found time to pounce on Harvey–

“You know,” Travis muses as he leaves, “I’m thinking Upper East Side.”

There goes that.

“Well,” Harvey quips, “why don’t you check out the corner of 81st and Kiss My Ass?”

* * *

 

Right on schedule, Travis gets a call from Coastal Motors about the case. He’s happy to sit down with their new general counsel and discuss Harvey Specter.

Disappointingly, the first question has nothing to do with Harvey: “What is this, Devane’s revenge?”

 _Whose_ _what_?

“I have no idea–”

“What I’m talking about?” Their attorney, Matt Lasker, scoffs in his face. “So it’s just coincidence that I have an initial consultation about bringing our business to Devane, my boss quashes that to keep Harvey, and a month later Smith and Devane’s trying to destroy us both.”

Travis shrugs. “I’m new there, I didn’t know any of this until you just told me.”

He snorts again and leans forward, forearms on the table. “I looked you up. Your background is in class actions, you don’t take on cases with just one plaintiff. And when it’s the company against the little guy, you sure as hell don’t take the little guy’s side.”

Travis wants to argue, but professionally speaking it’s still true, even though one day . . .

“So there’s no other plausible reason,” Matt concludes, “for _you_ to take _this_ case.”

“I took it for Harvey.”

“Excuse me?”

“I wanted another chance to beat him.”

Now Matt falls back in his chair, features twisted with confusion. “Look, I know he’s a nightmare sometimes–” god, Travis wants to punch Matt’s milquetoast face– “but there’s no way you care about Harvey Specter enough for that.”

Matt questioned the purity of his feelings. Travis cannot let that stand. He shoots to his feet, a wave of pure outrage bleeding into his brain, and starts half-speaking, half-shouting, not knowing what he’ll say until he hears himself say it.

“If you think that’s true you don’t know a damn thing about me. I hate that man more than you will ever comprehend, I would lay down my life to get at him, because I want Harvey Specter . . . ruined.”

Matt’s tilted his head and furrowed his brow, looking at Travis like he’s gone completely insane. Travis picks up his files, tucks them under his arm, and strides out. “I’ll be in touch.”

* * *

 

Harvey pushes Mike from the case, inexplicably compelled to fly solo, to keep Travis all to himself. He confronts Lawrence Kemp, CEO of Coastal Motors, at the airport, to reassure him he’s got everything under control, he’s got a crystal-clear understanding of the entire situation. Unfortunately, some other guy with a remarkably bland smile is muscling in on the meeting. Lawrence introduces him as Matt Lasker, the new general counsel.

“Forgive me,” Matt says, fumbling with a file, “I’m just getting up to speed.”

Harvey tries to redirect the conversation. “Then you should know–”

“Out of curiosity, why did you receive a draft of the complaint before we did, Mr. Specter?”

Dammit.

“Travis Tanner gave me an advanced copy.”

Against all odds, Matt’s smile gets even blander. “He must like you.”

“. . . We have a special relationship.”

“Which I’ve looked into.”

Now Lawrence jumps in. “Harvey, he really seems to have a bone to pick with you.”

“That’s not going to be a problem–”

“It may be for us,” Matt warns. Ten seconds later, he adds, “What Lawrence is reluctant to tell you is that your relationship with this man has put us directly in his crosshairs.”

Ten seconds after that, Harvey’s gotten himself fired.

* * *

 

Travis clears his afternoon, camps out across the street from the house of an old Coastal Motors employee, and lays in wait.

When Harvey’s car rolls up and he gets out, Travis moves his car over in the time it takes Harvey to interrogate the employee and find out that the memo’s frighteningly real. Then Travis gets out of his car, smooths his suit– he got it just before drafting the lawsuit against Harvey, a luxurious blue to match his eyes– whips on his sunglasses so he can suavely take them off again, and poses on the hood of his car, which is where he’s sitting when Harvey approaches with a stormy glower.

“Furniture salesman to limo driver,” Harvey taunts without missing a beat. “You're stepping up in the world.”

“Well, it's nice to know you still have a sense of humor, Harvey, considering you just learned you defended a murderer.”

Harvey tries to deflect. “I should've known you'd have me followed.”

“Follow you? I've been waiting for you.”

* * *

 

Travis just sprung a trap, and now Harvey’s neatly pinned. The ex-employee just confirmed that Lawrence perjured himself in the old case by covering up the murder, and if Harvey doesn’t turn him in he’ll be guilty of fraud now, though he wasn’t before.

“I wouldn't wait too long now,” Travis crows before returning to his car. “I'd hate to have to report you to the bar.”

Travis has him now, but Harvey still tries to fight. He leaves the house and corners Lawrence Kemp in turn and intimidates him into settling, properly this time. If Harvey uses excessive physical force in the process, it’s only because Travis arouses excessively intense hatred.

It’s only after Coastal Motor pays that Harvey realizes the whole damn thing could be a trick.

* * *

 

Harvey ambushes Travis. It’s a refreshing change from chasing Harvey himself.

“You used that memo to get what you wanted,” Harvey fumes, “but it never would have held up in court because you wrote it.”

“That's a scintillating argument. Too bad not a word of it's true.”

“Well, let's take a look at your resume. Witness tampering, extortion, bribery. Forgery fits right in.”

“That document's the real deal, Harv–" it showed up on Travis’s doorstep, which was a stroke of good luck he didn’t question too thoroughly, he was too damn excited to fight Harvey again– “and as far as reputations go, I know all about your dirty dealings in the DA's office. Unlike your theories about me, you were actually investigated for the very thing you're being accused of. Burying evidence. A point I can't wait to bring up in court. You're the one with the problem, Harv.”

In a show of real desperation, Harvey widens his eyes and appeals to Travis’s better nature. “You _know_ I didn't do this.”

The irritating thing is he _does_ know, his soul is once again screaming that Harvey’s a good man, perfectly innocent, but Travis grits his teeth and soldiers on. “Hey, thanks for settling the case for me, buddy.” In turn he’s struck by his vicious desire for Harvey, his need to destroy Harvey himself so no one else can ever touch him. “But I said I wanted a pound of flesh from CM _and you_ , and I meant it.”

Forget Coastal Motors. All that matters is his fraud case against Harvey and his precious firm, and no one else will keep Travis from victory.

* * *

 

“He's still coming after me for fraud,” Harvey tells Mike afterwards. “And a lot of people are going to think I buried that document.”

“How can you bury what doesn't exist?”

“Doesn't matter. They'll think it happened once, it could happen again.”

“So why are you smiling?”

“Because I know what they don't.”

“You're going to beat Tanner.”

“I'm not just gonna beat him. When I'm done with him, his own mother won't even recognize him.”

* * *

 

Travis and Jessica shake hands going into their first fraud deposition. He pointedly doesn’t offer Harvey a handshake. Jessica rolls her eyes.

Even after they settle in, Travis’s eyes linger on Harvey’s hands, which are twitching from nervous energy. Travis is playing it cool, but he can’t deny a tingling sense of anticipation, swelling with every breath he takes. He can’t help but feel that there’s some magnificent irony at play, like he’s been left out of some grand mystery, a joke played by the masters of the universe, but he’s got no time to dwell on this surreal absurdity, because Harvey’s staring at him and declaring, “Objection.”

Jessica objects to her wayward client’s objection on Travis’s behalf, sounding for all the world like a weary kindergarten teacher: “Harvey, you’re the defendant.”

“I wasn’t objecting to his question,” Harvey protests, “just his tie! I do have to look at it, you know.”

Should have worn the blue.

“This is fun, isn’t it, Harv?” he retorts. “Hanging out, catching up, learning about your fraud . . .”

He’s in a deposition, on camera, on the record, but Travis can feel his level of diction regressing by more than one decade, as if he’s an out-of-place teenager entering the ring for the first time. Then there’s the question of why the hell “fraud” sticks in his mind, convincing him that Harvey Specter is indeed guilty of fraud, though perhaps not _this_ fraud –

Harvey anchors his spiraling thoughts: “I hate to burst your bubble, _Trav_ , but there was no fraud.”

“There was no fraud?” Travis exclaims. “But you just said you had the document!”

“Yes,” Harvey says, “we went back through the case files, found the report, whoops.”

Though he then adds, “That’s it,” Travis doesn’t hear; his mind snags on that obnoxious, outrageous “whoops.”

“‘Whoops.’ I hope you got that,” he tells the court reporter, cracking up– cracking– every time he thinks about it. “‘Whoops?’ Your defense is ‘ _whoops’_?”

“All right, you've made your point,” Jessica intervenes. “You made us a settlement offer that we would never take; let’s talk about one that we would.” 

“This is a deposition, not a settlement meeting.”

“Every meeting is a settlement meeting.”

“Fine,” he snaps. “The offer was five million and Harvey gets disbarred. How about a hundred million?” Lacing every syllable with lip, he adds, “And Harvey gets disbarred.”

“Tanner, you want to take this to court, go right ahead.” Harvey smiles as he says it, but he’s also oddly subdued, as if he’s trying to holding something back. “I'd rather watch her cut you down than see her cut a deal, anyway.”

Travis ignores Harvey, if only because nothing will make him madder, and turns to Jessica. “You know, I see why Hairdo wants to roll the dice, but why you?”

She raises her eyebrows in disbelief. “You just went from five million to a hundred million, and you're questioning why I don't want to settle.”

“If that's the sticking point,” he shrugs, “I might be able to go to zero million. But the one thing I won’t budge on is he gets disbarred.”

He can’t believe the words, even though they just came out of his mouth. How is Harvey Specter’s disbarment worth a hundred or even five million dollars to him?

Even as he struggles to justify the calculation, he doubles down on deflection, on playing to the audience and running with the cheap insult just like he learned as kid: “Hey, I'm doing you a favor. I mean, what, does he cause a headache like this once, twice a month?”

“Doesn't matter,” she bites back, “because he cures more than he makes. Like when you stuck your nose into my case last year, and he beat you.”

“Crushed him,” Harvey edits. He’s deadpan, but Travis knows he’s back in his element, bantering with Jessica the way he’s supposed to with . . .

“Then he took his ball and went home,” Jessica says with mock-pity.

“Should have stayed there,” Harvey immediately tacks on.

That’s when Travis finally breaks.

* * *

 

The moment he cuts Travis out– nothing will annoy him more– and starts joking with Jessica, Harvey knows something’s about to happen. Their frenzied tension is strung too tight.

“Look at that,” Travis snorts, “Finishing each other's sentences, how cute. No wonder you won't throw him under the bus.”

Travis looks between the two of them, and Harvey catches onto what he’s implying, that he and _Jessica_ are together. That’s absurd, since first of all Jessica wouldn’t go there, she’s been been turning him down for years and could be married again for all he’d know. More importantly, in years past he’d jump into Jessica’s bed at the slightest invitation, but the thought now just feels _wrong_. He considers it and feels hot and guilty, like it’s tantamount to cheating.

That’s impossible, but Harvey’s still miserable at the accusation, still careening off-course, vibrating with years of bottled-up rage, and he’s suddenly certain that he can’t just let this stand, all the lies and implications and misunderstandings . . .

“Good for you, Harvey. I mean, you're, ah, throwing her under the bus.”

Travis makes a lewd gesture, a sideways fist-pump. Harvey’s fist crashes into his face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The initial dream is a role-reversed version of when Harvey dreamed about Travis in his bed (S05E05).
> 
> Canonically, Harvey lasts a couple seconds longer before punching Travis.


	4. Chapter 4

_ A kid gazing up into a boxing ring. Fans clashing outside a stadium. Two hands inches apart on a paper. _

They’re blasted by memories, crystal-clear images and phrases, inexplicable nonsense except for the fact that they explain everything. Every irrational impulse. Every wild idea. In one instant they see a whole lifetime of scenes and secrets, of missing each other, and as they stagger apart the world shifts, ties them together.

* * *

 

Travis recovers first, falling back against his chair, fingers grazing the bloody stain on his lip. He’s dropped the two expressions he was alternating between before– cold calculation and a gloating smirk– in favor of quiet consideration. His eyes are locked on Harvey’s.

“I was out of line,” he admits after a moment, his voice uncharacteristically subdued. “I apologize, though it wasn’t entirely my fault. I’ll drop the suit.”

He tears his eyes away from Harvey and directs them downwards, hastily gathering up his things and escaping as fast as he can.

* * *

 

Jessica rises from her chair to stop Travis. Harvey barely notices that, he’s too busy watching Travis leave him, and it’s not until she’s gripping the door handle that he says, “Wait.”

She spins around. “That man can get you disbarred on assault charges, there’s no fighting that–”

“He won’t,” Harvey says. Then– “I need to talk to you.”

She glances at the crowd forming outside their conference room. “My office.”

After a second he rises, follows her there, and then falls back onto a seat.

“All right,” she challenges, “explain to me what the hell just happened.”

He blinks at her, half-dazed, struggling to put into words what he’s just discovered. Finally he says, “When Travis and I met, we didn’t shake hands.”

Jessica’s frown turns to confusion. “What are you saying?”

“We never touched. I was too busy calling security on him.”

He braces for impact, for a lecture or an explosion. She drops down on her own seat, staring at him.

Then she cracks up. “You would!”

“I would what?” Harvey asks, bewildered.

“Fall for a less fashionable carbon-copy of yourself.”

“That’s not fair,” he corrects, shaking himself back to reality. Screwing up his face like he’s having teeth pulled, he ekes out, “He’s better than me in some ways.”

Jessica raises an eyebrow. “I have to hear this.”

“He’s not as fashionable as me.” She rolls her eyes, but Harvey persists. “He knows it, and he doesn’t care.”

“And this is a virtue?”

Harvey keeps going: “Myself excepted, he doesn’t care how people think he looks. Hell, he likes when people assume he’s as bad at work as he is at fashion, it makes them even easier to destroy.”

“Mm,” Jessica agrees with a shrug. “That is different from you, though I’m not convinced on 'better.'”

“Well, then . . .” He furrows his brow, eyes unfocused as he peers into his memory, sifting through all the revelations. “He’s not in the game to destroy people, did you know that? Victory’s a side benefit, not the goal.”

“Then what is the goal?”

“He likes to win,” Harvey concedes, “but really? He plays to be clever, to be satisfied with himself. Given a choice, he’d rather break a system than a person.”

“And yet he was utterly devoted to breaking you–”

“I’m special.”

“I’ll give him that,” she says wryly.

Now Harvey’s eyes widen as he lights on something new. “Jessica, he wants to be a good person.”

She snorts. “So does everyone–”

“I know,” Harvey interrupts, his voice now growing stronger, “but  _ he’s _ got a way to get there. He’s worming his way up the ladder, he’s making himself indispensable, and then he’s going to hold everyone hostage until they let him do whatever he wants. And what he  _ wants _ is to take cases he believes in. Nothing he can’t stomach, nothing that’s not . . . genuinely good for the world,” he finishes, voice tinged with awe.

As he untangles the whole master plan, his lips stretch into a cocky smirk.

“You think he’ll pull it off?”

“Yeah.”

Jessica considers him for several seconds and then chuckles. “In that case, congratulations.”

“What for?”

“You each found the only other person who will put up with you.”

His smirk falters. “That depends.”

“On what?”

“Whether he’ll have me.” He lets out a short groan. “You saw how he ran out of here.”

“Well, you had just punched him in the face.”

“I did,” he says, face stricken by anguish. “What the hell do I do now?”

“You get out of my office to find your soulmate before I start billing you for my time.”

She shoos him away with supreme confidence. Harvey wishes he shared it.

* * *

 

Harvey calls Travis’s number and gets nothing. He tells Donna to figure out what hotel the guy’s staying at, but he doesn’t try to figure it out himself. All he wants is to retreat to 81st and Riverside, to hole up in his apartment where he’s safe and secure and he knows everything–

When he enters, he finds Travis sitting on his living room couch with his feet up on the cushions, tapping away on his laptop.

“You broke into my apartment,” Harvey intones. Then he looks around and finds Travis’s knife block on his kitchen counter, Travis’s suit jacket slung on his chair, Travis’s Yale diplomas hung side by side above his mantelpiece, and amends, “You  _ moved _ into my apartment.”

Travis glances up from his work. “Whoops.”

Harvey bursts out laughing.

* * *

 

“My dreams of the Upper East Side will have to wait,” Travis says, pretending to mope, as if this stark ex-bachelor pad doesn’t already feel like home.

“Criminal activity aside, I’m glad I found you here,” Harvey replies. He takes off his own jacket and settles down at the other end of the couch. Travis moves his feet back a few inches, just to give him space, and looks back down.

“You here to make fun of me?” he asks while inserting a particularly vicious clause into the contract he’s working on.

“Why would I make fun of you?”

He types the final period, saves, and shuts the laptop. “Because I broke multiple laws, lost multiple cases and  _ moved _ in my quest for you?”

He’s deadpan as he says it, but Harvey’s face splits into yet another grin; god, Travis will make it his life’s work to keep Harvey Specter smiling. “It is kind of funny when you put it like that.”

“I know,” he preens.

“Actually, I’m not going to make fun of you, not least because I’m worth a quest or two.”

Travis swallows down the impulse to confirm it. “Hey, if you won’t make fun of me, I’ll do it for you. Someone should.” He tips his head back for a second and snorts, seeing a new angle to their story. “No one I know is going to be surprised that I found my soulmate when he punched me.”

Harvey cracks up again– victory!– before turning serious. “So that’s not why you left, then?”

Travis frowns. “I left to give you a moment.”

“A moment for what?”

He shrugs, worrying at his bottom lip for a second, right where the split is. “I thought ‘soulmates ruin everything.’”

Harvey’s eyes flash with recognition. “I didn’t mean that.”

Travis rolls his eyes, because he knows full well how furious Harvey was when Lily cheated with her soulmate. 

“I don’t still mean it,” Harvey edits.

Travis’s gaze flickers back to him, waiting.

“Look,” Harvey sighs, “not for lack of trying, but . . . you haven’t ruined anything yet. I crushed you on Emerson, you took away a client after showing me it was terrible, and now you’re letting me off the hook. Given how much effort you’ve put into it, you’re surprisingly terrible at ruining my life.”

Now Travis barks out a laugh. “By the way, I’m going to save you on your fraud case.”

“You already did.”

“No, I meant Mike Ross.” He laughs at Harvey’s look of alarm. “I must first observe that it is profoundly unfair for that squirt to get a shot at Pearson-Hardman when I didn’t, but also that you’ve done an awful job so far at covering up your fraud. I have no choice but to lend you my extensive expertise.”

Harvey smirks. “We’re going to be unstoppable.”

“Obviously.”

“You worried at all?” Harvey says, his smile dimming a little.

“About Mike? Not if you take my advice.”

“How about the gay thing?”

Travis realizes he’s not the only one who got to see a host of secrets. “I think it’ll work out.”

“I’ll punch anyone who causes a problem.”

He gives Harvey a look that’s meant to warn him, but of course the bastard just smiles harder. Travis scoffs, “I’m going to spend the rest of my life getting you off of assault charges.”

Now Harvey’s fully beaming as he corrects, “You’re going to spend the rest of your life getting me off.”

That’s a dreadful pun, dreadful and predictable, but Travis can’t deny that they’re both delighted with themselves and each other. “You’re such a romantic.”

“I do what I can,” Harvey says before making one more attempt at seriousness. “Travis, look, I can’t give you a storybook romance. I’m not going to send you bushels of flowers, or sweep you off your feet and kiss you.”

“I’d punch you if you did, given the condition of my lip.”

Harvey’s back to laughing, and he joins in; Travis suspects they’ll spend an eternity laughing with/at each other.

“How’s this,” Harvey says, getting back to his feet. “I’ll show you that Boston has nothing on the sushi here by getting us a table at Shuko tonight.”

“Shuko?” He’s actually heard of that one. “Is that because the food’s great or because you’re showing off your power?”

“Yes.”

He slides the laptop onto Harvey’s coffee table– their coffee table– and rises as well. “I’ll follow you there.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Travis's master plan to become a good person is inspired by his S5 redemption arc, where he does in fact turn his career around and use his power to follow exclusively morally justified cases.


End file.
